


A Necessary End

by Naudiz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female Blood Mage Cousland, Female Warrior Aeducan, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Moving On, background Alistair/Elyssa, it does only get mentioned in passing though, mention of blood magic, which is why i haven't put it into the relationship tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14247399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naudiz/pseuds/Naudiz
Summary: Brigid Aeducan sacrificed her life to kill the Archdemon. Some months later, Zevran travels to the Anderfels to attend her funeral and say his final goodbye to the love of his life.





	A Necessary End

The funeral took place in the late days of August, when the red-fever heat of summer slowly faded away into the somber temperance of autumn. The leaves on the few gnarled trees dotting the blasted landscape of the Anderfels had adopted hues of gold and crimson, like drops of blood against the bleakness of the desert. A fitting imagery, Zevran thought as he leaned against a wall, hidden in its deep shadow; royal colors to bid goodbye to one of the most noble souls to ever walk Thedosian earth.

As if enraged by the notion, or perhaps by summer dying, a merciless sun scorched the earth with dragon’s fire, coloring everything a dusty, blinding white and reflecting too-bright from the silverite breastplates of the Wardens assembled in the yard. The shade granted by the high walls of Weisshaupt was a fleeting gift, fading as the sun climbed ever higher on a pallid grey horizon. 

In the one place where the shadows could not reach, a lifeless form rested on a gilded stretcher, clad in dragonbone armor and a long, Warden-blue cape. With the sun illuminating pale features, the dwarven woman almost looked still alive, her hands clasped over her brother’s maul as if in somber prayer, black curls braided in Nevarran fashion and accented by a circlet of red-gold. A single earring gleamed in the sunlight; golden and still flecked with Darkspawn blood that never could be scrubbed out no matter what. Zevran knew, because he had tried so many times ever since he gave it to her, on evening spent by the fire in those last days before Denerim.

Looking at her now, it was almost easy for him to fool himself into the delusion that she was just sleeping, recovering from an exhausting battle like so many times before. But this time, the hand of death had touched her, and sure as the fire burned the forest, it had drained all life from her, leaving behind a husk devoid of all her radiance.

Almost. Almost paradise, almost happy ever after. But she had been taken away from him just like everything else. Like his parents. Like Rinna and Taliesen and his reputation as one of the most reliable Crows alive. Now, all that was left to him was the memory of her, an everlasting reminder of all the promises he had broken when he watched her die.

Heavy footfall drew him out of his reverie, announcing the arrival of another batch of Wardens. Zevran slinked deeper into the shadows, leather armor and tan skin blending nigh-seamlessly with the ashen stones behind him.

One Warden, he noticed, left a considerable space between himself and the phalanx of griffon-helmeted warriors accompanying him. He wore exceptionally splendid robes in the colors of Rialto Bay, blue and green and foam-white, closed with a griffon brooch of glinting diamond.

The High Constable, Zevran supposed. His sparse contacts in the Anderfels had already politely informed him about the man who served as the public face and voice of the order. A remarkable politician and diplomat if the rumors could be believed. Less remarkable in his appearance though, grand robes aside. 

Zevran found himself slightly disappointed. Despite his information suggesting otherwise, he had nursed hopes that the First Warden himself would make an appearance for the burial of the latest Hero of Ferelden. But apparently, not even a sacrifice as noble as Brigid’s sufficed to draw the man from his isolation. Typical. Great power invariably corrupted; this was the way of the world, not just in Antiva.

The High Constable and his band of guards climbed the stairs up to the battlements, silk trailing after him like gentle ocean waves. His voice ascended with him, the usual human nonsense falling from his lips like summer rain, reminiscing about Brigid as if he had been her closest confidant. How great and noble she had been, how humble and honest and steadfast, a true grace for the Aeducan family and all Wardens far and wide.

Zevran could not bring himself to listen, nor to care. The words were hollow blathering, not fit to fully encompass the force of nature that Brigid had been. If the man had known her - really known her, like Zevran had -, he would have never dared to insult her sacrifice with his flowery human speeches. Princess she may have been, but her heart had always been that of a warrior, unfazed by such unimportant things as diplomacy or politeness or the stylized pretentiousness of bardic stories. Knowing that she would only be remembered for her royal origins and not for the grim glory of her martial prowess would have driven her up the wall as surely as rivers flowed to the sea.

But they had not, could not have known her, and so the High Constable elevated her to the same noble, idolized paragon status his predecessors had made out of the previous heroes of the Blight. He rambled about ideals that had never and would never be true, giving a show for the historians so they could craft a grand epic from it, a retelling so glorious it could be used to recruit more unfortunate souls into their ranks.

Zevran wondered, briefly, if they would mention him in that particular tale, too. The vigilant shadow behind the glory of the savior, the knife in the darkness forged in her flame. 

But he dropped the thought as soon as it occured to him. For all of his commitment, all his love and passion and loyalty, he was still just an assassin and would likely only be remembered as such. His kind was never fit for the role of a hero. They were destined to be villains, evil forces seeking to snuff out the life of beloved champions.

This would be his fate, too: Being reforged into a wretched wraith, a dark version of himself to make Brigid shine ever brighter.

Curiously, he found himself at peace with that notion. His had never been the lot of a hero; if it had, it would be his lifeless body on this stretcher now, his corpse decaying in the desert sun while some old man sanctified him with lies and fickle blessings.

He felt something cold touch his hand, pulling him back from the maelstrom of negative thoughts threatening to swallow him whole. He glanced down into the intelligent eyes of a mabari cowering at his feet, noticing in passing that his fingers had curled white-knuckled around the hilts of his daggers. 

Mustering up a weak smile, he loosened his grip, letting go of both the daggers and his grim thoughts. Instead, he reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, the feel of short, greying fur under his fingertips calming the urge to run up the battlements and just straight up murdering the High Constable for his blasphemous blathering.

Ravager let out a very quiet whine, compassion etched deep into his amber eyes. His posture was that of a statue, the dark kaddis matching the shadows they were hiding in, so close and yet so far from the body of their one true friend in this life.

“You miss her too, amigo, no?” 

Immediately, he closed his eyes at the shallow stupidity of his words. Of course Ravager missed her. He, just as Zevran, had been imprinted on her, bound to the fate of the small dwarven woman who had given both of them their life back. How foolish to think that her loss would only grieve himself to the bone. They were connected, Ravager and he; blood-bound survivors of a battle that should have been their last as well, if she would have only let them in on her plans.

“And so, Warden Brigid Aeducan of Orzammar has joined our brothers and sister, joined them where they stand vigilant, to carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And though she perished, her sacrifice will not be forgotten. And one day, we shall join her.”

“And one day, we shall join her!”, the assembled Wardens echoed, their voices hollow beneath their helmets and mage hats and hoods drawn deep into their faces.

The words reverberated in the bone dry desert air like a mangled prayer. They would have been beautiful in the earthen darkness of the Deep Roads, but here under the vast grey expanse of a blighted sky, they felt meaningless, as easily forgotten as dust swept away by a sandstorm.

“But this is fine, I suppose”, Zevran whispered to himself. Brigid would have wanted it this way. Sacrificed and then forgotten, consigned to an oblivion she had always longed for even in her most jubilant hours.

Ravager whined again, Kaddis-smeared body pressing against Zevran’s leg as he stood nervously, carefully observing the Wardens up on the battlements.

So it was time, then. Good. Zevran was not sure how much longer he could have endured the High Constable’s incessant warbling.

“So let us now lay Warden Brigid to her final rest”, the man declared after the salute’s echo had faded away. “Warden Cousland, Warden Theirin. You have been her closest companions during the Blight, so the honor of bearing her to the tomb shall be yours.”  
They stepped from the close-woven ranks of the order, a king and his queen despite the solemn oaths with which they’ve forsworn their nobility.

Alistair still wore the battered armor of his long-gone brother, golden metal gleaming under a cloak of Warden blue just like the one bestowed upon Brigid’s body. He looked tired, weary, as if the Blight had taken ten years from him where actually just one had passed. The harsh lines on his face spoke from both exhaustion and grief, and the heat of the Anderfels had burned his skin three times darker than it used to be. 

Without that unmistakable air of awkwardness accompanying his every move, Zevran very nearly wouldn’t have recognized his former companion.

Ever faithful at Alistair’s side was Elyssa. Other than her lover, she had fully embraced the Warden attire, donning silver-and-blue mage robes with silverite shoulder pieces stylized as griffon wings. A cowl of darkest blue covered her hair and face, hiding most of her features from both the harsh sun and the prying eyes of her fellow Wardens. She had replaced the staff that broke during the battle against the Archdemon with a more formal one; a slender column of pale wood emblazoned with warding runes, tipped with a gruesome-looking blade. 

A fitting weapon for a woman like her - a perfect composition of protection and ferocious martiality.

The exact same description fit the mabari following close on her heels. Carrot wore the heavy war armor that Zevran had seen often on dogs and horses since coming to the Anderfels. Underneath the sweat-darkened leather gleamed kaddis, though; ruddy red like blood splatters on his back. The Kaddis of the Siege-Breaker. Zevran remembered Elyssa purchasing it at Lake Calenhad, painting it on with Sten’s help while they shared a watch. 

The memory was so fresh, so vivid, and yet it felt like from a different life. Strange how the perception of time could be altered by hardship and grief.

Ravager gave a low whine when he spotted their old companion, gazing wistfully into Carrot’s direction. The other mabari perked up, dark eyes searching the shadows for potential threats. They fixed on them, sure as a well-aimed arrow. But the dog didn’t bark, or otherwise reveal their location or presence. Instead, he shook his head as if to chase away a fly, then sat next down to the altar, a statuesque protector of the Hero’s mortal remains.

Zevran forced himself to become an equally still figure in the shadows, watching impassively how his best friends lifted Brigid from her bed of stone. Alistair flushed under the effort, the combined weight of the stiff body and the heavy armor straining even his considerable strength to its very limit.

Elyssa on the other hand did not once falter in her duty. Gripping the handles of the stretcher with cold determination written large in the curve of her lips, she called on dark energies to aid her, inky void swirling around her pale fingers in a disquieting display of power.

It said a lot about the mentality of the Wardens that most of them didn’t so much as flinch at the bold display of blood magic right in front of them. A few recruits, young as fresh cilantro springs, paled considerably under their Anderfels tan, and from somewhere further back in the crowd came a heartfelt curse, but otherwise, the sea of faces remained utterly impassive, unimpressed by what the Chantry deemed as the most vile affront against the Maker’s will.

No wonder the Chantry officials hated the order so much.

Zevran found himself reconsidering his opinion of Duncan. Maybe the man hadn’t been as ruthless as his deeds made him seem. Maybe he had simply been the product of Weisshaupt’s teachings, of their willingness to shed all knowledge and opinions they might have entertained before their Joining in order to take advantage of all assets available, no matter how cruel or dark they were. 

It was not so different to what the Crows taught, just with lovely details like the Joining and an early death via Calling added into the mix.

The crowd shifted like tidal waves as Elyssa and Alistair made their way across the courtyard, ebbing away from the altar and towards the high ceilings and ornate pillars of the gateway. The High Constable and his guard descended from the battlements in swift steps, joining ranks with their comrades, but keeping a careful distance, like generals in battle.

Zevran waited, impatiently, until the last of them disappeared from view. Then he followed, carefully treading his way through small strips of shadow. He encountered neither sentries nor servants as he forged forward. It seemed as if all of Weisshaupt had been abandoned to witness the burial of Warden Brigid - a much welcome distraction allowing unwelcome souls like him and Ravager to sneak closer until they reached the darkness beside the entrance to the catacombs.

They cowered down there, Ravager and he, preparing for the long wait that no doubt awaited them.

***

The ceremony stretched across the remaining part of the afternoon and well into the evening, ending only when the sun touched the horizon in a crimson blaze. 

Zevran’s legs were stiff at this point, the ephemeral cold of the Anderfelsian nights creeping deep into his bones. He must have fallen asleep for a while, because he found himself huddled against Ravager’s flank. The dog didn’t seem to mind, quite the opposite; the way he rested his head on Zevran’s lap suggested an equal need for comfort, and that thought warmed Zevran more than the body heat of a mabari ever could.

From beneath heavy eyelids and lashes pearling with sweat, he watched the Wardens pour out of the catacombs and back into the yard. All of them emitted the drained aura unique to people who had spent way too much time amongst the dead.

He couldn’t blame them for it. Even he, who professionally ended lives, couldn’t bear the presence of the fallen for longer than necessary. Something about them always sapped the energy right out of him, as if their souls pressed against the Veil to take back what was stolen from them. Elyssa had tried to explain the concept of the Fade to him once, and that souls couldn’t return, not truly. But though he acknowledged the truth behind her words, some part of him still hoped against hope to see her proven wrong; to see Brigid return from that cold realm to take him into her strong arms and never let go.

That was nothing but wishful thinking, though, and he was too old and too tired to cling to illusions, no matter how pretty they might be.

Elyssa and Alistair were the last to leave the catacombs. By then, night had fallen over the fortress, stealing away all colors save for the flickering red of the torches lining the nearby corridors of the fortress. 

Zevran pressed himself closer to the wall, not willing to risk detection. Not because he didn’t want to talk to his old friends, but because revealing his presence to their comrades could well mean his incarceration or even death. Who knew how the senior Wardens would react to an outsider, an Antivan Crow at that, sneaking into the heart of their order. Better not to take any chances. Brigid wouldn’t have wanted him to throw his life away, no matter how much he craved doing so.

The pair disappeared from view, melting into the shadows of the corridors like their siblings in arms before them. Zevran heard their footsteps echo in the hollow of the high ceiling for a while. Then they faded, until only the low howl of a cruel wind crossing barren plains remained.

He scratched Ravager behind the ears, rousing the dog from half-sleep. “Now, amigo, we will pay our respects to our love, yes?”

The mabari rose, dust clinging tightly to his fur, changing the hue of his kaddis from dark red to dull copper. Zevran braced himself against the wall while he followed suit, shaking his legs out until they burned from the blood rushing back into them.

He cast a quick look around, with the trained eyes of an assassin. There were guards patrolling on the battlements, but they were few and spaced out greatly to cover the enormous length of Weisshaupt’s ramparts. Doubtful that they would spot him in the darkness of the yard, so he took a chance and stepped out into the open and towards the catacombs.

The gate to the stairwell down was unguarded, but locked, heavy chains protecting the door against intruders. Those who employed brute force to get what they wanted, at last. Thankfully, Zevran was of a far more subtle kind. He produced his lockpicking tools from one of the many pockets on his belt, crouching down to work. 

It was not long until he heard the fine, satisfying click of the lock springing open. He stashed the tools safely away, then quietly lowered the chains to the ground before venturing into the morbid silence of the catacombs.

***

The long set of stairs seemed to wind into eternity, descending over a hundred feet down through pitch-black darkness before ending in a landing flanked by two griffons hewn from polished basalt. The air there was cool, stale and slightly moist. Torches of blueish-green flame illuminated a round chamber spreading out before Zevran and Ravager, wide enough to fit half of the fortress into it. Or a dragon. Which seemed appropriate given the fact that each Hero’s tomb was adorned with the skeletonized head of the Archdemon they had slain.

A dark kind of reverie gripped Zevran’s heart tight as he took in the sight of the gigantic skulls mounted atop five stone coffins engraved with various glyphs and wards. Strange to think he and his allies had slain one of those beasts, too, up on the highest tower of Fort Drakon, where a single misstep could mean plunging to your death. 

He remembered plunging his daggers into the powerfully muscled legs and soft underside of the beast’s belly where no scales protected its flesh, and how he dealt close to no damage, the dragon shaking him off again and again as if he was just an annoying insect. His last failed attack had sent him crashing into the battlements, breaking several of his ribs and knocking him out cold for several minutes. When his consciousness had flared back into life, he found himself unable to get up again, forced to watch Brigid land the killing blow on the Archdemon. Golden light had spilled from the beast’s severed neck then, engulfing both dragon and Hero in blinding radiance. 

The destruction of Brigid’s soul had been a beautiful thing, majestic even, defying every description no matter how talented the bard retelling the tale was.

He should have rejoiced, with the Blight ending in a glorious blaze, the evil defeated and uncounted lives saved. But there had been nothing but sheer terror in his heart, for the one person that meant everything to him sacrificed everything to achieve this victory.

And she hadn’t even told him about her plan. For all the faith and trust between them, all the blood and tears shed for their love, she hadn’t told him.

Taking in a deep breath to steady himself, he crossed over to where her coffin stood, so small beneath the great horns of Urthemiel, dragon of beauty. Her likeness was hewn into the lid, in such great detail and accuracy that Zevran could not help but run his fingers along her features - the crook of her nose and the slightly off-center bow of her lips, the scars cleaving eyebrow and cheek and chin apart. He half expected to feel her warmth under his fingertips again, but found only rough stone and the merciless cold of death.  
Ravager whined mournfully, placing his paws on the side of the coffin, then resting his head on stone-Brigid’s shoulder, just like he used to do with the real woman back when she was still alive.

It was this gesture that finally broke Zevran’s resolve and the numbness that had haunted him ever since entering the Anderfels. Tears blurred the edges of his vision, overwhelming grief crushing his throat in a death grip. He crumbled next to the coffin, weeping openly while Ravager pressed against him, howling in distress.

They stayed like that for a while, man and dog mourning for their Warden, for the woman they had loved more dearly than anything else in this world.

***

Zevran could not tell how much time had passed when he finally found his tears dried, all of the emotions he had bottled up for far too long expended to leave only a crushing feeling of emptiness behind. But he did not care about neither time or numbness. Not when he was here, with Brigid, where he belonged.

He bowed his head to the stone, pressing his cheek to the cold likeness of Brigid’s face, contemplating just staying here, with her, until death claimed him, too. Would the Wardens bury him next to her, acknowledging his devotion? Or would they just toss him out for the crows, or the vultures, to be forgotten forever? 

Light footsteps interrupted his thoughts before he could determine if he cared about the fate of his mortal remains or not, echoing loudly in the vastness of the burial chamber. 

Zevran tensed, reaching for his daggers while Ravager lunged to his side, snarling. “We do not want to fight!”, he called out, unable to see who approached them with his eyes still adjusting to the eerie brightness of the Veilfire.

Ravager apparently didn’t share this particular problem, for he barked happily, indicating the arrival of a friend. Shortly after, Zevran recognized Elyssa closing in, her cowl now pushed back to reveal blonde hair in a tight bun and a face still pale despite the Anderfels sun.

“I hoped you would come”, she said, her voice soft as silk and freshly fallen snow. She drew him into a tight embrace that drained the last of his tenseness and desperation from his body. He hugged her back with equal ferocity, burying his face in the crook of her neck and just clinging onto her for what felt like hours.

When he finally stepped back, he saw her smile, soft and sorrowful. Regret and grief glinted in her blue eyes, unspoken apologies for a crime he already had forgiven a long time ago.

“It’s good to see you”, he choked out, his throat raw and dry from crying.

Elyssa touched his shoulder sympathetically. Then she reached down, loosening a flask from her belt. She offered it to him with an air of reverence, still smiling that sad smile of hers.

“Brigid’s rite wine”, she explained when his eyes widened at the Aeducan family emblem and the griffon heraldry carved into the side of the flat metal flask.

Zevran shook his head, unable to speak, tears threatening to spill all over again. He attempted to hand it back to her, but she closed his fingers over the cool metal, with more strength than you would expect in a person as woefully scrawny as her.

“No, keep it. Brigid wanted it that way. ‘Give it to Zev. As a token of my love, and as an apology. For everything.’ She told me right before going up to the tower.”

He exhaled slowly, scrambling for composure. When his fingers stopped trembling, he unscrewed the cork, then took a swig. The wine tasted like deep mushrooms and elfroot, blood and the sweet, sweet wild cherries he had picked for Brigid back in the depths of the Brecilian Forest. 

Like her.

“Did you know she would do it?”, he asked after a while, not looking Elyssa in the eye.

She sighed, a forlorn sound in the vastness of the chamber. “I did then.” He felt her gaze shift from him, as if she could no longer bear to look at the broken husk he had become. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop her, Zev. It should have been me dying up on that tower, not her. This was never her burden to bear.”

Zevran sighed, then carefully placed the ritual wine in one of his belt pocket before reaching over and lifting Elyssa’s chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t say that, Lys. Brigid made her decision, and there is nothing you could have done to stop her. You know that as well as I do.”

He looked at the coffin, at the likeness of the woman he had been ready to spent his remaining years with. When his eyes locked with Elyssa’s again, he felt the ghost of a mournful smile on his lips, strange and hollow.

“It was a necessary end, and she accepted it so that we can rebuild the world. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Let us honor those words, mi rosa. For Brigid.”

“For Brigid”, Elyssa repeated, drawing him into a tight embrace while Ravager barked in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this story! If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos or a small comment. It would mean the world to me <3


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